


This is Moscow Speaking

by Somedeepmystery



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst and Feels, Anxiety, Arguments, Don't smoke kids, Established Relationship, F/F, Pajamas, Political Things, Separation, Smoking, Song Lyrics, Unresolved Issues, bad knitting, but you know, coffee consumption, history reference, it was pretty common at the time, mild domestics, mild restraint, theft of a title
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:55:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21747130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedeepmystery/pseuds/Somedeepmystery
Summary: Political and philosophical differences can be hell on a relationship, especially when there's an Iron Curtain in the mix. Gaby stews over what Illya has been doing for the KGB and things come to ahead between them.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller
Comments: 16
Kudos: 61
Collections: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Winter Holiday Gift Exchange 2019





	This is Moscow Speaking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rose_griffes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rose_griffes/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, rose_griffes! This prompt really reached out and grabbed me! I almost had to dismiss it outright because it wanted to me some kind of multi-chapter epic and I knew I could make that happen for Christmas! Then this idea came to me and I hope it is a little of what you were hoping for. Hope you are having an awesome holidays and enjoy this fic.

_If I broke it, would you quit? Is this heartache we could fix? In the morning, when we wake, when I'm sober, would you stay?_

She hates it when he’s gone.

With no way of knowing what he does when he is there, what he does when he has been called back by the KGB, she is left wondering, her mind spinning its own dark possibilities. Where is he exactly? What do they have him doing? What purpose, what mission? Should she be afraid for him? (Or _of_ him?)

She has no way of knowing.

Lately, his separations from U.N.C.L.E. have grown longer and longer. Waverly doesn’t always tell them much, but she isn’t a fool. She knows her business, does her own research. She hardly needs to do either to understand that it’s likely the change of Soviet leadership causing problems. Khrushchev was open to the idea of cooperation. Brezhnev–not so much.

Gaby walks across the room to the coffee pot and pours herself a third cup, her eyes surreptitiously lifting to check Waverly’s closed office door. Surrounded by the sound of typing keys and the occasional exchange of conversation, she meticulously stirs in a bit of sugar, a touch of cream.

Winding her way back to her desk, she takes a seat, sips her coffee and casts another glance at Waverly’s door. Her attention drifts to the report on her desk. The one that hasn’t left her mind since she read it over by lamp light the night before. Her eyes drop to where it sits on top of her pile. Almost of their own volition, her fingers flip open the cover and she skims the words again, her heart rate kicking up, momentarily stealing her breath.

The timing is impossible to ignore.

Two men in the USSR, Andrei Sinyavsky and Yuli Daniel, have been taken into custody by the KGB. They are writers. Both men are being accused of ‘anti-Soviet agitation and propaganda.’ The evidence of their crime: two tales of satirical fiction, both published outside the USSR and under pseudonyms. The stories had caught the eye of the KGB who tracked down the men behind the pen names. As a result, the authors and their families were placed under twenty-four-hour surveillance, their homes were secretly searched, their colleagues became informants, and agents had infiltrated their neighbors by posing as relatives and friends.

She had been fooling herself.

She knows exactly the things that Illya does when he is with the KGB. If not in detail, then in spirit. Gaby has seen, and experienced, the KGB firsthand, long before one of them had become a _semi-_ permanent, _intimate_ fixture in her life. She knows the kind of work they do, the measures they take. She knows what they are capable of.

The thought of it makes her hands shake as the memories flood her mind: shouting in the hall, pleading wives and crying children. The smell of dust in her nostrils as she curls up, small, in the dark. Being very quiet while harsh, disembodied voices discuss how best to get what they want from whomever they found.

Gaby sets the papers down and fumbles her purse and coat from the back of her chair, a sudden craving for fresh air clawing at her lungs.

“Leaving already?” Solo asks, and she spins around, heart jumping into her throat. Her expression remains unmoved, a wealth of reaction hidden behind her champion level poker face. “If you are finished with your reports, you’re welcome to do mine,” he intones with a smile.

He looks as handsome as ever, over dressed as usual. Though he maintains a light air, his perceptive eyes study her before flicking over her right shoulder. She doesn’t need to turn to know what he’s looking at. It’s the same office door she has been watching for the last several hours. Ever since a tall, familiar Russian with a flat cap had slipped inside without so much as a glance in her direction.

“I’m hungry,” she says, shrugging into her poppy-red wool coat. “Thought I'd run over to Kertz for a sandwich.”

Her American partner frowns. “Right now? I—” his gaze drifts to that door again “—thought you’d wait.”

She blinks up at him before finishing her buttons. She swallows a spike of anxiety and adjusts the purse strap on her shoulder. “I don’t see why.”

Her tone is almost as urbane as she intends, though the words themselves taste sour. She ignores the questioning tilt of his head and turns to leave. In a twist of nearly cosmic irony, Waverly’s office door chooses that moment to open and Illya steps out. Her breath stalls in her chest, anger and panic flare.

Their eyes lock, drawn together as if by some etheric connection.

The last time she saw him–properly saw him–the weather had been bright, hot, the sun beating down on the streets and roofs and walls of the city, turning her small flat into an oven. They’d been sprawled half-naked on her bed, stretched out in opposing lines with the windows open to take advantage of the pitying breeze. He’d laughed as she tossed out ridiculous possibilities to fill out the crossword in the paper, his hand absently caressing her ankle whenever he would get lost in thought.

Now, the outdoors carry a chill, the leaves on the trees are changing their colors, and he looks tired. Haggard isn’t a strong enough word to describe the worn lines of his face. It makes her heart twist hard, but she makes no move toward him. The feeling of nausea remains weighted in her belly, the words ‘informants’ and ‘infiltrate’ echoing inside her head.

They are words she hears nearly every day, words she herself actively participates in. It’s her job. She’s a spy. But the specific context has them striking discordant against still wounded parts of her psyche. The girl inside her that had been raised beneath the dark shadow of the _Stasi_ and their _inoffizielle Mitarbeiter_.

Illya’s gaze holds onto hers then drops to the floor as he gives a small, resigned nod. He makes his way toward his desk, hat in hand, his suede jacket folded over one arm. Gaby strides purposefully toward the exit. No one looking on would guess she was fleeing the scene.

“Peril.” She catches Solo’s greeting as she rounds the corner. “You look like shit. When is the last time you slept?”

His tone is bland, even more so than usual, and she wonders if he knows that it gives away his concern all the more. She stops–leans against the wall, her ear turned back in spite of herself.

“Sleep is for the weak.” Illya’s deep, familiar baritone reaches her like a caress and Gaby closes her eyes, letting her head fall back with a thump. “Hello, Cowboy,” she hears him say. There is a familiar note of humor in his voice when he adds, “You look well rested.”

Solo chuckles at the barb and Gaby thinks she can hear the rustle of fabric as they shake hands. “Welcome back.”

“Is good to be back,” Illya replies and Gaby’s eyes flash open. She draws herself up, her face like flint, and slips into the elevator.

It is much later in the evening that a knock comes at her door. She’s in her pajamas, her dinner sits, mostly uneaten, and a glass of gin already warms her belly. She knows who it is. His hands are large and fall heavy. When she opens the door, there he stands, all two meters of him. Five o’clock shadow, winter coat, and a hand-knitted scarf with slightly uneven stitches in a color she had known would bring out his eyes.

A hand on the door, she hesitates, her mind and heart swirling, unsure if she will let him in. She devours the sight of him, though, greedy despite the emotions battling inside her. He looks at her like she’s a Christmas tree lit up in the dark. Finally, she steps aside and he slides past, unwinding the scarf, unzipping his coat to reveal his standard dark turtleneck and slacks. Gaby closes the door and crosses the room, pours another gin. Doesn’t pull the top on the scotch or take out a second tumbler. Her stomach clenches tight, burning, and she turns to lean back against the cabinet.

“So,” she demands with a wave of her glass and a sharp tone to match her smile. “How was work? Suppress anyone interesting?” Her accusation is clear. One of his hands balls up into a fist at his side.

“It was work.”

She scoffs. He takes offense. They argue.

It’s all been said before. She calls him a puppet. He accuses her of indulging in bourgeois ideals. Their voices remain just controlled enough to avoid rousing the neighbors– they’ve had plenty of practice. She wants to say they will never _not_ argue but she knows that one day they will stop. That one day they will _have_ to stop. One day Moscow will call, and the assignment will be the one that changes everything. One day he won’t return to argue with her over what he has done while he was away.

“What exactly do you expect me to do?” It’s a growl shot at her sideways as he paces.

“I expect you to stand up for what is _right_ ,” she returns.

“And you think you know what is right?” He folds his arms and gives her that smug, arrogant look she hates only when it’s directed at her.

“Yes!” She smacks her tumbler down on her little bar, making the bottles rattle. “These are your _people_ , Illya. These men are writers not–not warriors against the state!”

“Those stories are–”

“What?” she demands, cutting him off. “Too close to the truth?”

His nostrils flare as he streams out a breath. She sees the muscles in his jaw roll.

“And now they will be sent to the gulag,” she finishes, her chin going up. “Just like your father.”

He pulls back like she’s slapped him. It's a low blow and she knows it, but then she has never been about the niceties. She does what is effective.

They stare at each other, eyes narrowed.

“Will you do _anything_ they ask of you?”

“That is the _job_ ,” he bites out, leaning in and jabbing a finger at the ground as if it would support his claim. “You are the same. You follow Waverly as though–”

“No, Illya, I don’t!” she spits. “I know where I would draw the line!” She’s breathing hard, her knuckles are white, nails biting into her palm. “And what about you? Where do _you_ draw the line?” _Would you give them Solo? Would you give them_ me _?_

He sucks in a sharp breath, even though she kept the worst of it back. Because he _wouldn’t_ , she knows—she’s sure she knows. 

“Will you always think the worst of me?”

Gaby has always been terrible at understanding her own feelings, but she thinks her heart might be breaking. Maybe that is why her words come out like shards. “I think we should stop here,” she says. “Let’s break up.”

Illya goes very, very still. It is not a relaxed stillness; he’s rigid, his shoulders more taut than when they were half-yelling at each other. Her gaze dodges his, knowing the pain she will see there, knowing it is reflected in her own. She can’t show him that weakness. He will agree, she’s certain. He will go along with what she wants. Illya is always afraid of imposing, of overstepping his bounds, always afraid he might be taking more than his share. She uses it against him now and she’s too angry, too _afraid_ to hate herself for it.

What she hates herself for—is the _doubt_.

“No.”

Gaby opens her mouth, her response already prepared. Her eyes flick up to his, widening. “What?”

He moves toward her, long legs covering the space almost instantly. She backs up on instinct but there’s nowhere to go. He lifts her up, presses her against the wall and uses his body to pin her there. She’s too stunned to even fight him.

“ _No_ ,” he repeats, his voice gravelly and low but firm, unwavering. His eyes search her face, winter-blue and haunted. Questioning. “Gaby...”

His body is warm and hard and oh so familiar. She knows she should push him away, knows she should cut things off clean and cauterize the wound with fury. Instead, her hands fist in the soft, dark material of his sweater, pulling him closer, and when he bends his head to kiss her, she opens under the violent pressure of his mouth with a growl.

Tongues war and teeth clash. Illya moans and Gaby tastes the coppery hint of his blood. Anger dissolves, no longer fueling their brutality. In its place is intemperate, savage desperation. Her pulse races like a wild thing in her veins, her heart twists, and a tear leaks from the corner of her eye. It trails hotly down her cheek to her lips where it mingles, salty and bitter, with their kiss.

She clutches at the back of his head, her nails scraping at his scalp because there’s not enough hair to hold onto. Her legs wrap around his waist and squeeze. He may be the one pinning her to the wall, but he won’t be able to pull away without bringing her with him. She can’t really say who takes the other to bed, although Illya does the carrying. It hardly matters. Within moments they are naked, skin to skin and Gaby lets herself get lost—not just in being touched but _touching_ , not just in being taken but _taking_. She nips and tastes and _marks_ him—makes him hers again. She knows her claim can’t be forever, so she strives to make the memory of it last an eternity.

The pace is rough and urgent. Illya’s hands shackle her wrists, his eyes a storm as he pushes inside her. Gaby cries out and lifts her hips, pushing back, wanting more, needing him to be as close as she can possibly get him. Their eyes lock and the mood changes. His grip loosens, their fingers intertwine. He says her name in a beggared prayer as every thrust, every move they make shifts from frantic to achingly, fervently _deliberate_.

He doesn’t break their connection as he releases one hand and brushes the hair from her face, cups her cheek, a broad thumb swiping at the wetness on her lashes.

“I changed my mind,” she breathes and his rhythm stutters. “I won’t let you go.” He blinks, searching her eyes. His hand is huge holding her face; she leans into it. “Not yet.” 

A million emotions flash across his features as he holds her gaze. He shifts a thigh up under hers and pushes into her again. “Yet?”

She flexes her jaw, her hand tightening where he has it pinned beneath his. “Never.”

A tremor runs through him and she can see it all reflected in his expression, the same fear and doubt, the same understanding of impossible. 

“Good,” he gasps as he starts their rhythm again. “Don’t.” Her fingers drag down the back of his neck to grip onto his shoulder. He nuzzles into her hair, his breath is hot just behind her ear as he whispers, “ _Please don’t._ ”

Passion builds between them, blazing hot and ravenous, their need driving them on toward the conclusion of their coupling. She almost doesn’t want to find it, doesn’t want these moments with him to end. He caresses down the length of her body and she holds him tighter, staring into his eyes as he reaches between them to touch her exactly where she needs. Tears fill her eyes as the orgasm takes her, her body arching up into his, her breath catching on a cry of his name. He follows after her with a deep, guttural sound, his hand pressing into the small of her back as he empties inside her.

Nothing is resolved. This isn’t a fix. It’s not an answer. It is only a balm, a reminder...

She shouldn’t love him, _but she does_. She knows the heart of him, the hidden inside bits and pieces that no one else knows. Things he’s afraid to let anyone else see. They are hers and hers alone to hold and treasure. Above all their differences, all the paranoia seeded by her past, beyond all sense, all hope–she _loves_ him.

And he loves her. That is one thing she never doubts.

Later, Illya sleeps like the dead while Gaby sits beside him and smokes, her knees pulled up to her chest. The nail of her ring finger ticks against that of her thumb. Her mind is too busy to sleep. There are no solutions to be found by her scurrying thoughts. There is no life to be built here, no future to be made. This is now. Now is all they possess, all they _can_ possess. As many nows as they can steal. In the end he will go, she will stay, and these “nows” turned “thens” will be all that is left of them.

Illya lays on his back, one hand curled up in the middle of his chest, the other dangling off the side of her bed. Reaching out, she brushes disheveled blond hair off his brow and wonders–

“When is the last time you slept?”

Gaby blinks, disoriented by having her thoughts come out of Illya’s mouth. Her hand is still in his hair, and he takes her by the wrist, kisses her palm. She pulls her arm back to cross it over her knees. He shifts up to his elbow so they are almost face to face. His blue eyes watch her expectantly and her brain catches up to the fact that he is waiting for an answer.

She looks him over but decides not to comment on the circles beneath his eyes. “I sleep a little each night.”

He brushes the tip of his nose along her arm, kisses her shoulder. “Not enough.” It isn’t a question.

She takes another long pull on the cigarette and gives a shrug. “Sleep is for the weak,” she mimics. His response is an exhale that’s half-laugh/half-exasperation.

He lifts the cigarette from her fingers and takes a drag of his own before reaching across her to crush it out. “Come,” he says. He wraps an arm around her hips and pulls her down to the mattress with him. Gaby goes willingly, shuffles to curl against his side, his shoulder beneath her cheek. She turns her face into his chest, breathes deep, thinks of having his scent on her pillows again.

His lips brush her head and she closes her eyes. “I _missed_ you.” His words sink deep, seeping into her soul, soothing the leftover edges of her anxiety.

“I missed you too.”

The contrast between his warm body and the cool air at her back makes her shiver. He tugs her quilt up over both of them.

“It was snowing in Moscow when I left,” he tells her. “It is hardly even cold here.”

Gaby chuckles. “It’s cold enough. You were wearing the scarf.”

His voice is warm, his hand stroking her side. “I have other reasons to wear it.”

“I should have knitted a tracking device into it.”

“You didn’t?” Illya tuts as if she has disappointed him and she laughs softly.

“Go to sleep,” she commands, sliding her arm around him and burrowing further into his embrace.

“Will you make me breakfast in the morning?” Sleep is already luring him back. She can hear it in his voice.

“No, _you_ are making _me_ breakfast,” she explains. “It’s your turn.”

He hums. His hand is still, his body relaxed. “That’s right.”

Her eyes stay open, watching lights from the street play on her wall. No, nothing is resolved, nothing but this: she wants him, and she isn’t done fighting. She can only hope that, when the line is finally drawn, they can somehow find themselves on the same side of it.

Illya lets out a soft snore and she smiles, pulled back into the present. She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes. A moment passes, then two. His breath ruffles her hair. She can hear his heart beating, so steadfast, beneath her ear. Sleep finally comes.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The Sinyavsky–Daniel trial is often considered the event that marked the end of what was known as the 'Khruschev Thaw.' The trial itself was held in February 1966 and both men were were found guilty and sentenced to seven and five years in labor camps, aka the gulag.  
> 2\. It was also a major player in the start of the Soviet Dissident movement! (Because that's how it usually goes. Even a bunch of the intelligentsia were like wth dude.)  
> 3\. I know that technically 'more taut' is wrong but 'tauter' is too much like 'totter' and I'm sorry English but I object.  
> 4\. My seasonal timing might be just a bit off for when this information would have come to UNCLE, just go with it please for my sanity.  
> 5\. Lyrics from Go Easy on Me by Matt Maeson - I recommend the Stripped version.  
> 6\. Title is stolen from the story that got Yuli Daniel sent to gulag. A story I'm also sure "The Purge" stole it's idea from. LOL  
> 7\. That's it. That's all I've got. Why are you still here? Go eat some goodies. (Leave a comment first though, if you would, I would be delighted to hear your thoughts.)


End file.
